Waiter to the Rich and Shameless: Confessions of a Five-Star Beverly Hills Server (11 page)

Vino
held the bottle at a 45-degree angle and opened the bottle without much of a
struggle – just a hiss was heard when he popped the cork.  He followed the
protocol and poured a sample for Mr. Cervantes, then got the nod to pour for
the table.  Vino started with the ladies and finished with the host just as it
is supposed to be done.  He gently fitted the bottle into a silver wine bucket
that he had placed near the table and ceremoniously laid the white cloth wine
napkin across the top of the bucket with the neck of the bottle sticking up and
resting against the back of the wine bucket. 

I’d
been watching from a short distance away just to see if Vino would need any
help and I gave them a moment to drink a toast and enjoy their drinks.   A few
minutes later, I again approached the table to address the host and his guests
and let them know what the chef’s specials were for the evening.  Since I could
tell that they were not ready to order yet, I said, “Thank you, I’ll return to
take your order in a few minutes.”

Mr.
P came over to see if everything was going okay and I wondered if this was my
test table.  “Don’t worry, Baby, jos stick to de Rule of Service and jew’ll be
fine,” he said.  “Jos let me know if jew need anything, Baby, okay?”

Somehow
when Mr. P calls you Baby, it’s not in a derogatory way, it’s just his way of
speaking.  I nodded a bit nervously. Another table of four sat down in my
section and as I approached them, I threw a suspicious glance towards Mr.
Cervantes and his guests.  They were just starting to pick up their menus.  I
cautiously returned to Mr. Cervantes’ table after serving drinks at my new
table.  As I looked around the table, I asked if they had any questions about
the menu and if they would like me to take their orders.  Mr. Cervantes said,
“I think we’re ready, eh, Rita? What would you like?” 

He
gestured to the woman who had ordered the apple martini.  Vino had returned to
the table and begun pouring champagne for Rita, who was already getting a
little giggly.  Rita had short blonde hair, blue eyes, and was about fifty
years old; attractive and classy but not in a sexy way. She wore a navy blue, belted
cotton shirtdress with a white collar, probably Burberry, and a creamy pearl
necklace that probably cost more than all my furniture. 

Mr.
Cervantes wore a sturdy, well-made charcoal suit, blue and white striped shirt
with white collar, and what looked like a Brooks Brothers necktie in maroon with
thin gold and navy stripes.  He also had on his infamous tinted oversized ‘70s glasses.
His hair was a perfect, evenly shaded brown, which lead me to believe he was
hiding a full head of gray underneath.  It just didn’t look natural. 

It
had been a hot day but not unbearably so, and by seven o’clock it was starting
to cool off.  It was actually quite nice out in the garden. I really liked working
in this section above all others.  All of the candles on my tables had been lit
and the garden’s lushness, along with the candlelight, brought a pleasant
intimacy to my section and I couldn’t see why it wouldn’t be full of diners
within an hour.  Even an ordinary drink or dish would seem special in this
fairytale setting.

“Yes,
ma’am, what can I bring you this evening?”  Rita ordered and then I took the
other woman’s order and finally the host’s. Since Rita had requested the
gazpacho as appetizer, I recommended some nice ahi tuna carpaccio and an order
of house-cured Balik salmon to share for appetizers.  I also let them know
about our famous chocolate soufflé dessert. 

The
ladies perked up when they heard about the soufflé and Mr. Cervantes said, “Thank
you, eh, what’s your name again, son?”

“Pauli,
sir.” 

“Thank
you, Pauli, we’ll take your suggestions on the appetizers and bring two
soufflés for us to share at dessert.” 

“With
pleasure, sir,” I said.  I read back the orders to each of them as quickly as I
could, and once I had my nod from them I knew I could enter the order.  I told
Mr. Cervantes that I would send Vincent over to suggest some nice wines for
these dishes.  I thanked them all and went to my other table to see if they were
ready to order. 

Shortly,
I returned to the GM’s table to pour more water and reset their setup according
to what they’d be eating:  soupspoons for gazpacho, steak knives for red meat
dishes, etc.  Then all I had to do was time their courses correctly so that they
didn’t have to wait long between them.  It’s important to keep an eye on the
guest’s pace of consumption, as I want the food to arrive fresh off the line to
avoid any unnecessary time under a heat lamp.  To do this you need to know how
long it takes to cook the different dishes in our kitchen and how to figure in
the soufflé course, which will usually take 20-25 minutes from the time you
fire the order.  That’s if Patzo remembers to put it in the oven, which was
never a sure thing. I silently plead,
Fool, don’t fail me now.

The
way things worked, I needed to input my entire food order at the same time,
including soufflés and correct seat position numbers as well.  I split them up
by pushing a button called
first course
and entered all the appetizers
and first course items, then pressed the
second course
button and added
all main course items, then the
dessert button
to order the soufflés. 

Every
course had to include corresponding table position numbers so that the
food-runners would know exactly which guest received which plate.  My order
would then print out in the four respective food stations (cold, grill, sauté,
and dessert), and it would also show all the different courses to all the
stations.  Once those tickets are picked up and posted in their respective
stations, all I had to do to activate them was to press the
FIRE
or
Pick
Up
button on the computer screen for each course.  By keeping a close eye
on my guests and judging the guests’ eating pace, as well as judging how busy
the kitchen was, I knew when to confidently
FIRE
their order.  All this
plus the Rules of Service was what I was responsible for at every one of my
tables. 
No problem, it’s a lot of pressure, but I got this.

My
perspective changed as I began to notice how crazy it got when my station was
full that night and I had to skip several Rules of Service because there simply
was no way that I could perform all of them.  The hostess consistently seated
multiple tables without any real concern for whose station she was seating.  It
is not uncommon to be inundated with four tables within a 15-minute period. 
That wouldn’t have been a problem at a regular restaurant, but here with the timed
Rules and the serious importance placed on maintaining a calm demeanor, it
became a real challenge, especially when I usually had a six-table station to
manage. That could mean coordinating upwards of twenty-four multi-course dinner
orders in a very short span.

Luckily,
the GM and his guests were finished eating by 8:30 pm and he went on his way to
his comfortable home in Santa Monica Canyon.  On their way out, I held the door
open as he and his guests exited the garden.  I very calmly thanked him and he
smiled and winked at me.  As soon as they left, I race-walked back to my
station, trying not to grit my teeth, where I was buried in work for the rest
of the evening. 

Among
many others, I served Kate Hudson who was an absolute joy.  She drank a vodka
martini and had a glass of Phelps cabernet with her dinner.  Next to her at the
neighboring booth was Martin Short (and he is, very) who was dining with Carrie
Brillstein, philanthropist and widow of producer/manager Bernie Brillstein.
Short was in rare form, assuming his frenetic Jiminy Glick persona, bouncing up
and down and full of life.  We are not allowed to react or interact with
celebrity guests, and it was a challenge to not laugh out loud. Short is
fucking hilarious. After Brillstein left, he crashed Kate Hudson’s table for a
while.  He was a gas, a regular Chatty Cathy. When Hudson stood up to go to the
restroom, Short bowed and kissed her hand.  As she stood tall in her heels,
reaching about five-ten and towering over Short, she was a statuesque beauty
with a butt that would make J-Lo jealous.  With her radiant smile, golden hair,
fitted yellow top and snug jeans, she was workin’ the room without even trying.
I felt myself falling in lust again.

A
bit later into the evening, I checked in at Penelope Cruz’s booth to see what I
could help with there.  Although it wasn’t my table, I was new to this
celebrity thing and I couldn’t help doing a flyby. She was in a deep
conversation with her brother and a lawyer or agent. Their conversation seemed
to revolve around her brother’s contract to compose the musical score for a
film she was starring in. As it happened, they were ready to order and I took
the order.  Only her brother Eduardo spoke, and he asked for our special $38
buttermilk fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy.  Penelope joked that
he liked everything fried.  She was right because later he asked for fried
calamari too.  As I entered the order I saw that she was drinking a soy iced
latte and I thought,
How healthy
. The film was eventually released with
Eduardo Cruz credited as the film’s composer.  Lucky little shit.  Why isn’t my
sister Gwen Stefani?

At
the end of the night, while doing my closing side work at around midnight, I
asked Daniel, “Wow! Is it always crazy like this?”

“Yeah,
it’s pretty tough sometimes but you’ll get used to it.” 

“How
do you guys keep up with those Rules of Service?”

“We
don’t, I mean, you try to, but they’re not really designed for a restaurant
where the waiter has this much responsibility, you know?” 

It
didn’t sound like a warning when he said it, but the weight of those words
would resonate later on in my career.

“Yeah,
I got seated almost all at once around eight-thirty and I was instantly
slammed. I couldn’t find my busboy, couldn’t find Vino to offer wine; it was a
total goddamn nightmare and you guys had one more table than I did.  How do you
handle it?” 

“Oh,
you know,” he said in his gay singsong voice.  “You adjust, you just do your
best, that’s all.”  I appreciated his comforting tone, but somehow I wasn’t
convinced. 
Really?  Here?  At the best place in town?

“But
why don’t they have more staff, I mean we only cost eight bucks an hour?” 

“Ah,
it’s all fucked up, Pauli!” said Jens who had been eavesdropping on our
conversation.  “I’ve worked in fancy restaurants all over the world and never
seen anything like the way they’ve been running this place lately, man!”  Jens
was so passionate he was talking with his hands and spit was flying. The last
time I'd seen Jens that angry he'd been yelling obscenities at Christie over
the phone.

Daniel
laughed and gave me that knowing gay look and then he said, “I’m going to drive
myself home, pour myself a couple of nice single malt scotches, and listen to
My
Fair Lady
.  Ta ta, see you tomorrow, Newbie.” He giggled as he left me
standing there.  I stopped for a moment sort of taking in the evening and
wondering what I had gotten myself into. Jens had finished and headed to the
changing room, not even saying goodnight. Despite his fit of anger, he’d
probably made at least five-hundred bucks in tips alone.

When
I got home that night, I counted my cash again:  $312.  Not bad for my first
night, but I was exhausted and my feet were aching.  I couldn’t remember ever
working that hard before, but I also never felt as essential or validated. I
knew I had done a good job and I'd impressed some important people, primarily
the GM, which could ensure a good career at one of the most notable eateries on
Earth.

Those
are some long-ass shifts
,
I thought to myself and passed out on the couch.  I woke up at four in the
morning, stripped naked, and crawled into bed.  I slept until eleven for the
first time in a year and when I got up I felt completely refreshed and ready to
take on the world again.  

For
the next several months that followed my bank account grew nicely and although
service was repetitious, every night offered something new.  I felt we were
always working short-handed but I tried my damnedest to give great service so I
could make the big tips and be a credit to the legacy of the Cricket Room.  I
ended up having to work in the garden area almost every night and since it was
such a warm summer, that area was always packed with lively guests.  They even
put the musicians outside in the garden every evening all the way into the
middle of September.  The music carried through the open doors and sliding
windows so you could hear it throughout the main restaurant.  It made the dining
room feel even more elegant and old Hollywood grand than it was. Hard to
imagine how you could class up a joint that was already known for its class,
but live music can do it. Especially when it's more than just a standard piano
player.

There
were times, though, when it felt like we were on the Titanic, listening to our
swan song as I drowned in sparkling water, wine, and au jus. I race-walked
everywhere from seven to midnight and when I got home at night, my legs ached
and my feet were on fire. Boo hoo, right? I was making great money so I should
shut up.

During
this period, I served many celebrities including Jennifer Aniston, Vince
Vaughn, Gary Oldman, Leonardo Di Caprio, Juliette Lewis, Rob Lowe, Colin
Farrell, Tom Selleck, David Spade, Thomas Hayden Church, Sharon Osbourne, Brad
Pitt, John Malkovich, Tara Reid, Toby Maguire, and Diane Keaton.  You know all
of them so no explanation needed.

The
hardest thing about serving such famous Hollywood icons, at least for the first
time, is trying not to stare at them. It’s so other-worldly to see someone like
Selleck, who’s not just huge, he’s bigger than life, and who you’ve watched on
big screen and small for years. They are invariably taller or shorter than
you’d imagined, and the women are either spectacularly beautiful or very
ordinary without screen makeup. But you can’t stare. It’s
verboten
by
ownership.

Brad
Pitt was cool and very humble.  He had a few Pyramid beers with a producer
friend and then he took off on his motorcycle down Sunset Boulevard heading
west towards the Palisades.   Am I saying that he was driving drunk?  No, he
was there for two hours and had two beers, so he wasn’t breaking the law, at
least not with my assistance.  He had been there many times before; I just
hadn’t been the one serving him.

I
remember when he came in during his filming of
Troy
, he had long hair
and a cast on his leg.  Ironically, he had torn his Achilles tendon while
playing Achilles in the epic film.  I remember Jens helping him to the restroom
so he wouldn’t need his crutch, instead just leaning on Jens and limping a
bit.  Quite honestly, I think that made Jens’s whole year. 

Diane
Keaton was interviewing assistants and using one of my tables as her office.  I
think she interviewed four different girls.  When I finally gave her the bill,
she signed it without giving me her credit card.  I then asked her a question
that I already knew the answer to:  “Ms. Keaton, do you have a house account
with us?” 

“No,”
she answered. 

So
I looked at the bill folder again as to give her a hint. “Oh, did I?  Yeah, oh
my God, I’m sorry.”  She threw her hands in the air and laughed at herself in
that endearing, exasperated way that only she can. “It’s just been a long day,
that’s all,” she said while handing me her platinum Amex card. 

“Thank
you, Ms. Keaton, I understand,” I said.  She wore one of her famous yuppie
hippie outfits with the vest, slacks and a hat that reminded me of her look for
the film
Annie Hall
. She’s charming, like the eccentric aunt you always
wanted to spend time with.  

Colin
Farrell was friendly.  He kept calling me Bud, chose a bottle of inexpensive
French red wine and a New York steak, entertained himself for a while, then
paid and left.  No one really bothered him too much, maybe because in his roles
he’s always super-macho and usually snarling. The tip was very “European,” by
the way.  I think it spoke Gaelic. 

Bill
Maher showed up with a lovely African girl who was so dark-skinned I could
hardly see her that night.  At first, I thought he was alone.  It didn’t help
that the booth in the garden was only lit by candlelight.  I don’t know for
sure but I have a hunch she was an escort. He is, shall we say,
looks-challenged and very small although in this town success speaks louder
than anything. She was stunning and well put together; she looked professional.

The
late Gore Vidal was a regular and shared a lot of history with the restaurant,
as he’d been coming here for decades.  Mr. Vidal, who usually never sat in a
booth because of his wheelchair, would always take his regular table, number
48.  Gore was one of the more interesting people who frequented this establishment. 
He was a cerebral man with no need for a suntan, unlike his old Hollywood
counterparts, Robert Evans and Gorgeous George Hamilton, who always look
deep-fried to a crisp.  Vidal traveled with his male nurse who usually
requested me as their server.  One night, I commented on how interesting it had
been to see him talking to Robert Evans the night before.  In his signature
droll style, he said, “Yes, well, he started to tell us a story about this
woman he met in San Francisco and the story went on and on.  He wouldn’t stop! 
As a matter of fact I think he’s still telling it.”  I laughed; he was a
character even by Hollywood’s standards and had a rapier wit. 

In
his usual fashion, he ordered his martini from the hostess, so that it would be
ready by the time he was seated.   He definitely has his priorities straight
and getting his Grey Goose Gibson as quickly as possible was of great
consequence.  He also asked me for a ham sandwich on white bread with a side of
Dijon and mayo, but not before taking a long slug of his martini while his
eyelids fluttered in sweet delight. 

Since
I hadn’t had the time and pleasure of talking to him for a while, I took the
opportunity to do so on this particular evening.  It was still a bit slow in
the main dining room, so before his food arrived I took a moment to ask him how
he was doing. 

“Better
now, looking at you, young man,” he said in a saucy, flirtatious way.  I asked
him if he’d had a nice day, and he told me that he had been to the Huntington
Library in Pasadena.  Mr. Vidal commented on what a remarkably beautiful place
it was, and then quickly segued into a rant about how LA was such an ugly city
full of ugly people, “Except for you, of course,” he said, nodding to me. 
These mischievous tidbits of naughtiness were nothing new from Gore, though I
never quite knew how to react to them.  I chose to see them as an endearing
quirk, and I usually tried to acknowledge his flirtations without encouraging
them; I just responded with a quick, polite smile.  I hastily mentioned how
enchanting I think the gardens are at the museum, and he praised the Japanese
and botanical gardens.  Eager to keep the conversation going, I described how,
during my last visit, I had felt that the
Blue Boy
painting by
Gainsborough and the painting of
Pinkie
by T. Lawrence stood out in
particular.   He proudly mentioned that he owned one of the largest private
collections of Neapolitan paintings and that he would donate his art collection
to the Huntington Museum when his time to leave the Earth arrived, which he
said he felt would be sooner rather than later.  Then his face turned angry and
he suddenly said, “Because I can’t stand my family! I hate them all!  I’ll be
damned if I leave them any of my art collection!” 

I
really wasn’t ready for that outburst so changed the subject and I asked if he
needed anything else at the moment.  He took a breath, and then said loudly:
“Bring me the head of John the Baptist!” I held in a snicker and told him we
were all out of that item, and he said, “Well, then, I’ll have some oysters,
please.”  And from there he went right to ordering dessert – vanilla ice cream
with chocolate sauce. He usually didn’t sign his own check, but on that night
he did the math himself.  Even though it was an odd amount he managed to figure
twenty percent exactly to the penny.  He was still a sharp man up ‘til the
end.  That is, until that second drink kicked in and he was either singing to
the oldies by the piano or falling asleep in his wheelchair.  But mind you, he
never lost that grip on his martini. As a side note:  when he ordered the head
of John the Baptist, I seriously thought about offering up the head of my
busser as a substitute, but censored myself before I could horrify Vidal. On
second thought, however, anyone who would come into the legendary Cricket Room
and order a plain ham sandwich might have a high threshold for horror.

Tom
Selleck, always low-key and pensive, would come in solo at first and spend an
hour making notes regarding his crime drama show,
Jesse Stone
.  Later
his friend Tony would join him for a couple of scotches as an appetizer, then a
juicy NY steak with a couple of glasses of red wine. For dessert, they would
skip the sweet stuff and go right for a great cigar afterwards.  I even sold
them a couple of Davidoffs from our house selection.  Beverly Hills hadn’t yet
enforced the no-smoking rule for outdoor dining areas.  He’s a gentleman and a
class act all the way, imposing and impressive. No chit chat from him.

John
Malkovich came by for a couple of evenings with his family.  It was strange
watching the androgynous-looking Malkovich speaking French with his wife and
two kids.  They seemed very tight as a family, with beverages all around as
appetizers while they played cards together.  On the other hand it was strange,
looking into his eyes.  When he speaks, he seems to stare directly into your
naked soul in a sinister sexual way.  I can’t explain it but he ain’t no
regular Joe, that’s for sure.  That’s probably why he’s so good at playing
weirdoes and monsters; might be a little bit of typecasting. I felt like he
imagined a section on the menu under which Filet of Pauli were listed.

When
Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn came in, it would actually cause quite a
stir.  He’s a huge handsome guy and she’s gorgeous, so of course people gawked.
Many of our guests would try to send over drinks, but we wouldn’t allow it. 
People also tried to take pictures with their phones and we had to have
security confiscate their phones and delete the pictures.  We were actually glad
when they broke up and stopped coming in together.

One
quiet Tuesday night I got an unannounced visit.  As I gazed toward the front
door I saw a couple of tall guys walking in, casually dressed, and a skinny guy
behind them walking in holding a little girl’s hand.  In a moment, I made out
Johnny Depp and his daughter.  He wore a tan fedora, a dark chocolate-brown
fitted T-shirt, a short, light, beige cotton traveler jacket, and comfortable,
roomy blue jeans.  I didn’t make it to the shoes.  Depp’s then-ten year-old
daughter, Lily Rose, is the spitting image of her lovely mother, and is very
beautiful with her golden blonde locks.  

This
was my first time serving Depp.  “Good evening, Mr. Depp, Miss Depp, good
evening, gentlemen.”  I assisted Mr. Depp into his booth where he sat alone
with Lily Rose.  His two assistants and his security guard sat at a nearby
round table more or less blocking the view from googley-eyed onlookers. 

“How
are you this evening, sir?” 

“Doin’
great, thanks.  It’s nice to be here,” said Depp pleasantly. He’s played such
famously weird over-the-top characters I wasn’t sure what to expect, but he
seemed entirely normal. 

“Sparkling
or still water for the two of you?”  Johnny looked at his daughter who whispered
something, then said, “Still, please.”  As I looked into his kind eyes I
instantly felt as if I’d known him for a while; he seemed so open and
friendly.  I almost felt like striking up a conversation about knowing a
musician friend of his who runs a music studio in Hollywood, but I decided it
was best to keep things professional, for now, anyway.  Our sommelier Vino
popped up at the table out of nowhere with an almost inappropriately eager and
intense energy.

“Good
evening, Mr. Depp!” he chirped. “My name is Vincent, I’m the somm here at the
Cricket Room and I’ll be happy to assist you with any wine choices you’d like
to make!” He sounded nervous and his energy was the polar opposite of Depp’s. 
I looked at him and then at Depp.  Depp was still smiling and looking at Vino
with his calm eyes as though he were being entertained.  His lips twitched in
that signature almost-smile you must know.

I
left the table to approach Depp’s assistants and take their beverage orders
with my ears still tuned in to the conversation behind me.  I was terrified
Vino was going to make a fool of himself.

“What’s
your taste, Mr. Depp?” said Vino.

“Well,
I normally go for French wines, La Mission, Haut Brion, but even a really
well-made Margaux might be okay.” 

“Let
me suggest two wines that will absolutely knock your socks off.  They are both
the biggest cult names coming out of Napa right now.” 
Oh my fucking God,
how inappropriately casual. A sommelier is supposed to be very professional and
aloof, not a sports buddy.

“Sure,”
said Depp.